


A Dark and Mad World

by csquared225



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mind Control, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/csquared225/pseuds/csquared225
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Thor 2: The Dark World, alone with his thoughts, Clint devolves even further until Phil makes an executive decision and comes to his rescue just like he alway promised he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark and Mad World

**Author's Note:**

> Thought of the song Mad World by Gary Jules as I wrote this, thought of the title of Thor 2, and I made a clever. ...Okay, so I couldn’t think of another title.  
> Anyway, I’m pretty sure I will be writing another fic from Phil’s point of view at one point, and include the events of episode eight of Agents of SHIELD in there as well.  
> And this version of Clint is quite depressed, at the breaking point and may seem kind of pathetic, but I don’t think he’d be doing too well at this point. Poor baby.  
> ALSO I STILL HAVE NO BETA SO IF I MISSED SOMETHING THIS IS WHY.

 

It wasn’t the weird rifts in space and physics getting fucked up that had tuned him into what was happening.

 

It wasn’t the weird weather or repeated calls to P--Coulson’s old cell from that astrophysicist and her assistant. He didn’t listen to them, he couldn’t.

 

It wasn’t even the obvious SHIELD activity taking place in Europe that he wasn’t officially privy to because he’d been suspended for the psychologist’s reports and moodiness since the Battle of New York.

 

It was fucking Erik Selvig running around naked at Stonehenge that finally got his attention.

 

He was unlucky enough to have turned on the news that morning, the first time he’d watched television in a week, at the perfect time to see the guy he’d guarded for months babbling and streaking at a national monument. His fingers automatically twitched to turn off the television, but for some reason he held himself still and simply watched.

 

The guy had gone nuts. He was completely off his rocker, and unlike Clint, he’d gone to the mandatory therapy sessions and taken the meds and done his time.

 

If he’d ended up like that, who was to say Clint wouldn’t follow soon enough? Sure, the guy had had more time under Loki’s influence and a lot more exposure to the Tesseract. But Clint hadn’t exactly been the picture of mental health before The Battle of New York.

 

And now with Phil gone...

It fucking hurt. Natasha was off with Steve hunting down the legendary Winter Soldier (and getting cozy while doing it), the other Avengers were scattered across the globe (even Thor was on Earth again, apparently); Tony and Pepper were recovering from their brush with the Mandarin, Maria and Jasper had gotten together after the Chitauri invasion, Fury had his hands busy, and Phil was...still dead.

 

Needless to say, he’d cracked and ended up in a ball on the floor of the bathroom trying not to literally tear his hair out again. In a rare act of self-preservation, he’d been trimming it buzz-cut short lately to shake the habit. People like him can’t afford to have habits, Natasha had taught him that much. Better to nip temptation in the bud before it could fester.

 

He’d dug out one of Phil’s old shirts from when they’d stayed over at each other’s apartments, wearing each other’s clothes, when they were too tired to go home after a mission. Sometimes items of clothing ended up staying in their closets, occasionally swapping back, or remaining there.

 

In this case, the well-worn white T-Shirt with Cap’s shield on the front had been the last thing Phil had left at his house the night before they headed back to the Pegasus facility for the day. It was all he really had left of Phil from that moment. It had still smelled like him so strongly the days after the invasion that Clint had both been desperate and loathe to use it, in case his own scent permeated and overtook Phil’s. He’d kept it ever since.

 

He choked on a sob and curled in on himself again. He desperately pressed the shirt to his nose, but to no avail. Phil’s scent had officially faded, and his tears soaked the worn fabric. He wasn’t even allowed this one thing? This one last bit of Phil that he hadn’t destroyed?

 

He couldn’t even take care of a fucking shirt. He was completely useless. And alone.

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d been low, but not this low. He’d briefly contemplated throwing himself off a building the first few days after The Battle of New York, but had remembered something Phil had told him earlier in the week beforehand.

 

_Flashback_

_“Copy that. ETA two minutes out, over.”_

_Phil responded again in kind, and dropped the microphone. Clint hurried forwards to settle him back down into the rickety chair. The mission they’d just completed had involved Phil being driven out of the surveillance vehicle when their mark turned out to have an unknown accomplice and didn’t take kindly to his buddy getting an arrow through the eye._

_“Hey, take it easy, John McClane.”_

_“Are you implying that my hair is thinning more than it already is, Barton?” Phil managed a tired retort, and Clint smiled. Of course Phil wouldn’t leap to the conclusion that this meant Clint thought he was a bamf._

_“I’m implying that you’re a fucking badass who’s out-badassed himself for the day, and needs to sit down. Even McClane needs to rest.”_

_Phil rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but complied. He sighed and flinched minutely when Clint’s hand came up to wipe away blood from his head wound._

_“I’m fine, Clint.” And there was his first name again, in the field. Clint still wasn’t used to it. “It’s a minor concussion, and you know that head wounds bleed more than they should.”_

_“I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you before the medics come, right?”_

_Clint shrugged and pointedly ignored the soft look this got him in return. He heard Phil clear his throat, and looked back. The SHIELD agent only did that if he wanted Clint to maintain eye contact, so he did._

_“But if I weren’t fine--”_

_“Whoa, Phil.” And there was Phil’s first name. Clint held up his hands, ignoring the way that one of them was covered in his handler’s blood. “Don’t get all deep on me now, it really isn’t that bad of a head wound, I’m just being cautious--”_

_“If I weren’t fine,” Phil continued on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I want you to do something for me.”_

_Clint licked his lips and tried a weak chuckle. It sputtered and died._

_“What, hide your super secret porn stash? I knew you had some somewhere, just ‘cause I haven’t seen it in your apartment doesn’t mean it’s not there…”_

_Phil sighed and barely nodded._

_“Of course, my super secret porn stash,” he said dryly. “And one other thing.” He took a breath, and there was another bad sign. Phil didn’t do anything like that to steel himself, push himself to keep talking. He just kept going, like that bird thing from the cartoons Clint used to watch at a rare friend’s house when he was in foster care, or if the television in the circus ever got freed up. “You’ll keep going. You’ll absorb the hit, recover, carry on. Always keep fighting. Promise me that.”_

_Clint blinked rapidly, knowing that the wetness in his eyes wasn’t from the sweat cooling and dripping down his forehead._

_“Phil...that’s not gonna happen, okay? ‘Cause I’m gonna have your back. Always, you know that.”_

_Phil shook his head, composure slipping now._

_“Clint, with our job you know we can’t promise that,” and they couldn’t, and Clint shouldn’t have lied just now, but he wanted it so desperately to be true. “Please. Promise me. Promise me that if things ever go sideways, you’ll go on, you’ll keep fighting.” Phil had never looked this firm and yet desperate at the same time before. The blood running down his temple nearly got into his eye, and he blinked it away. Clint swallowed and steeled himself, but nodded in agreement._

_“Okay, okay. I promise, Phil. I promise.”_

_End Flashback_

 

He’d made Phil a promise, and he couldn’t let that go just because the other man was dead. He owed him that much after so many years of taking care of him and putting up with his shit.

 

But why did it have to hurt so much?

 

“Clint?”

 

Oh god, it was happening again. He was hearing and seeing Phil. The last ten times it had happened it had been in a gritty motel, though, so at least he was grateful for small miracles. This place was better guarded, not even Phil could have gotten in here so quickly. He whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut again.

“You’re not real,” he repeated, squeezing his eyes shut. He’d go away eventually, and Clint would be left to his thoughts again, all of the guilt and pain and sadness pressing down on him again. It never lasted, no matter how much he wanted it to. At least this Phil looked healthy, like being stabbed had never happened. It was how he wanted to remember him, not pale white and bleeding out on the floor of the Helicarrier.

 

The footage that he’d forced himself to watch, because it had been his fault. All his fault, leading the assault onto the carrier, leading Loki right to Phil, telling him all about the man he loved and how to take him down, not to leave him standing because he didn’t look it but he was one of, if not the most, capable man in the organization. The god had even been amused by the flour story.

 

Possessed him had been pleased at making his master laugh.

 

He gagged, and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to scrape the memories from his inner eye, to no avail. It almost never worked, anyway.

 

“Clint, no, it wasn’t your fault--”

 

Huh. He was still here. They usually didn’t last this long. It was both a relief and agony. The former which he deserved more.

 

“You don’t deserve this, Clint! You were a victim, too-- You know what? Forget it, you’re not going to listen to me like this (not that you normally do unless I’m telling you to shoot someone anyway). Get up, come on…” He let himself be hauled up and dragged onto the couch. He and Phil had always had a thing about the couch. Sitting together and watching a movie at one of their places (usually Phil’s), going through mission reports or debriefing, because Phil knew Clint associated being briefed behind a desk too much with being in the military...

 

He felt bile gather in his throat as he was shifted into an all too familiar position, Phil on his right and tucking him almost into his lap but not quite, arms around him like after a bad mission. He missed this so badly, and now his mind was taunting him with what would never be again. It was far too cruel.

 

“Clint, I’m here. Just let it go, okay? I know you don’t think I’m back, but I am, and you have to just let go. That’s an order, Clint.”

 

His body still remembered how to take orders from Phil Coulson, and he finally felt the tears that had come hard before spill easily now.

 

“You’re dead, I killed you, I’m so sorry, Phil, I’m so sorry!” he sobbed, pressing weakly against the arms that held him. This was his most realistic hallucination yet, and the kindest. He didn’t deserve Phil’s affections, alive or dead, but he selfishly took them anyway, because he knew if he didn’t then the mirage would go away, and he’d be all alone again. Better to have company in his insanity.

 

“You did not kill me, Clint Barton.” Not his whole name, which meant he was really in trouble, but close. This hallucination was really accurate. A frustrated huff came from above him. “Clint. You weren’t the one who took a giant spear and put it through my heart--” Clint choked at the reminder. Loki hadn’t been kind, and had showed him the whole thing through his own eyes, how Phil shuddered against him after the initial stiffening of being stabbed, the way his breath wheezed out of him and how the god let him slide down the wall in a sickening noise of flesh and blood. “Oh, Clint...no wonder you…” He heard a sigh.

 

Of course he knew that. He was in Clint’s head, he knew everything that he did. Or he had been babbling again. He tended to do that nowadays when he was having one of these breakdowns. Tasha would be completely unimpressed with his lack of control. As much as she’d do what amounted to coddling if she comforted him, she had her limits, and seeing him “be a baby and mope around” wasn’t her idea of a good time. Which, fine. He got it. Everyone hit their limit with him sometime--except Phil. Phil hadn’t been given that chance.

“Clint! You can be annoying sometimes, but I am never going to be fed up with you and leave you--not again. You’re strong, loyal, kind when you need to be, talented, creative... You’re my asset, you’re Clint.”

 

Only Phil could sound so earnest and fierce at the same time about Clint, not even Tasha got that passionate about defending him. There was no way that Clint’s self-pitying mind would conjure up such a thing. His stomach dropped.

 

“You’re really here,” he breathed, and immediately tensed, face flushing. Oh god, this was even more humiliating than it had been before. Coulson had seen him fucked up before, in the throes of a poison or drug or bleeding out somewhere in a middle Eastern country, even after nightmares.

 

But never like this, sobbing and curled up and weak and begging and apologizing to someone he’d thought he was dead, his boss--former boss, oh god, did that cut deeply--who could probably never look at him with a shred of respect anymore. Oh god, he was really here. He’d been spilling his guts (almost literally--well, bile more than actual guts, this time, but there was that op in Chechnya…) to the real Phil this entire time. He didn’t think he’d been anymore humiliated in his life, and he had a lot of times to choose from.

 

No, he wasn’t sticking around, anyway. That would probably be for the best. For Clint’s sake, the best thing for him right now would be to get the hell out of here. He darted for Escape Route #2 that he’d had planned since he took up residence in this tiny little apartment for the month, the shimmy down the fire escape that he’d had reinforced in his first week here; the thing hadn’t looked like it would hold a small dog before he’d done so.

 

He dove for the window, getting halfway out before he was caught around the waist by familiarly strong arms. He growled and wriggled weakly, but he’d been curled up so long without sustenance that he wasn’t strong enough to fight. He went limp, at least making it harder for him to drag him inside.

 

“You always were a good escape artist,” Phil grunted in effort as he dragged him back inside. “Jesus, Barton, you’re practically skin and bone, what happened to you?”

 

He didn’t reply; Phil could figure it out for himself. He knew what happened when Clint got depressed. He forgot to eat and take care of himself, and if it were a really bad episode, he’d spiral down because he’d remember that taking care of himself was important for his job and he was nothing without his job, he was nothing--

 

“Clint,” another gentle murmur of his name, and he was curled up again, snuggling into the comfort of Phil’s arms. Fine, if he was already down to his last, completely laid bare, he was going to enjoy it until Phil shoved him away, just like everybody else eventually did (Natasha was not a cuddler). And apparently he kicked in bed and eventually she’d just shoved him out from under the covers and gone back to sleep. They slept in separate beds on missions now (when they did sleep, that was).

 

“Clint,” and this time the voice was a little pained. The archer was horrified when he realized how tightly he was holding onto Phil’s arms, and quickly let go, trying to get away again. “Hey, no, come back here.” He was dragged back much more gently this time, and set in Phil’s lap again. Phil’s lap. He buried his red face in his side again. God, was he pathetic.

 

“Clint, no.” Shit, he was still talking out loud. He had to quit that. “You’re still hanging on, trying to keep fighting. Just like you promised me, remember?” He sniffled and nodded, thinning his lips. Phil smiled a little bit wider and continued petting him. It felt nice. Phil knew just where to press and scratch and how fast to go… He’d missed this. “I’m proud of you. So proud.”

 

That was another thing Clint was going to need some convincing on. He’d been brought down to his lowest and most pathetic, but Phil was proud? He knew his skepticism showed on his face, but the apparently very real Phil Coulson simply shrugged and said, “We’ll work through it.”

 

It was what he said whenever Clint had back talked to another handler he’d been forced to work with that wouldn’t let him choose his own perch, or when he got in a fight in the mess hall with another smart-mouthed agent; when he had disobeyed a direct order from Fury and refused to take out the drug lord whose five-year-old son was sitting next time, or wanted to bring back Natasha as an agent instead of taking her out. It meant that things were going to be okay.

 

That, more than anything else, convinced him that maybe things would be better. He took in a deep breath, grimacing when he inhaled a load of snot. Unsurprisingly, a strong hand with a handkerchief initialed PC came into his line of sight. He grumbled but took it and blew his nose, wiping away some dried tear tracks, too.

  
“Freakin’ humiliating,” he mumbled, sulking. It was all he could do to hold onto his last vestiges of pride. He felt rather than saw Phil shrug.  
  
“You’ve seen me in a similar state in Manchester, in ‘02.” That had been a shitstorm, HYDRA experimenting with a drug and selling it on the blackmarket. Phil had unfortunately gotten in the line of fire and Clint had sat with him all night while he was out of his mind, shouting and screaming and shivering as he went into withdrawal.  
  
“Yeah, well you were drugged,” Clint shot back, a little annoyed. There was a lapse into silence for a while again, then he had to speak up again.

 

“Missed you,” he admitted softly, almost shyly. “Missed that steady voice in my ear, you being my handler and planning my ops and debriefing. Sitwell’s good, but he’s not you.”

 

“Clint, I’m so sorry. I never thought--” The older man sighed and brushed what felt suspiciously like a kiss to his head. “I thought you’d move on,” he confessed, smiling sadly. “Or at least have someone there for you during your recovery. Natasha, or one of the other Avengers...”

 

“They all left,” Clint said softly. “I mean, I know Nat’s coming back eventually, but...it feels like before. Everyone leaves me, Phil.”

 

‘Even you,’ went unsaid, but it was clear enough when he felt the flinch against him.

 

“I’ll never be able to say how sorry I am,” Phil murmured. “You’ve been abandoned so many times in your life, I didn’t even think how this would affect you in regards to that. And I’d promised I’d never do that to you and here that’s what ended up happening… I’m so sorry. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day. I’ll fight for it as long as it takes, Clint, I promise.”

 

Clint let out a cough that was more of a laugh than a hack like he’d normally give.

 

“Forgive...there’s nothing to--well--”

 

And that was a lie, wasn’t it. Phil had chosen not to tell him, had withheld intelligence like he’d also promised he wouldn’t do if he could help it. He’d left knowing that Clint and Natasha and the Avengers that he’d fought so hard for were alive and well, without bothering to let them know that he was the same way. “Okay, so there is stuff to forgive--you died and didn’t tell me and left me--but in the end it all kind of evens out. I don’t deserve it, anyway. I got you killed, Phil. I told Loki how much you meant to me and how important you were and told him to get rid of you, that SHIELD would topple all that much faster, and…”

 

“You were being mind-controlled, Clint,” his (former, oh god, did that cut deeply) handler reminded him. “You never would have given any of that information up if you’d been in control, right?”

 

“Of course not! I’d never do that to you!” the archer said fiercely, then paused. “Oh. Well...still. I should have been stronger. We have resistance to mind control and conditioning training for a reason--”

 

“No one would have been able to withstand the scepter,” Phil interrupted him again. He looked as patient as ever. “It’s been deeply analyzed, and from what little that’s been ascertained is that it’s irresistible. The only reason it didn’t work on Tony Stark, as he later reported--” In other words, after Sitwell had pestered him enough, “--was because of the arc reactor. He could just as easily have taken Director Fury, or another agent that was there. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He saw your skill and wanted to have it for himself.”

 

The last few words were said in the tight, monotonous tone Phil often reported his field assessments, or evaluations, in. Clint snorted bitterly.

 

“What, so I was a good enough killer that he figured he’d take advantage of that? Some kind of twisted compliment…”

 

“You are skilled, Clint. Perhaps it is a twisted compliment, but you’re good at what you do. You were able to form a band that was skilled enough to take down something very well-armed.”

 

Clint grimaced, squirming. Phil shifted the conversation a little bit.

 

“When I was picking out members for my team, I didn’t choose them because of their skill for killing, or just investigating. I knew which people were best suited for the job by reading between the lines, knowing their character.”

 

Clearly this hadn’t been a good idea, shifting the subject to his team, because Clint had gone tense in his arms, and he quickly changed the subject again, which apparently wasn’t a good idea, either.

 

“On a case, there was a Chitauri virus...I talked to one of the victims right before he succumbed to it,” he spoke softly. “Told him what it had felt when I...when I died. That it was beautiful and he’d be okay.”

 

Clint’s throat felt like it had closed up completely. Phil remembered being dead? And he’d been happy? Then why had he come back? Phil looked down at him, and seemed to read this on his face.

 

“I had more work to do here. And I suppose,” there was a wry twist to his grin now, “I couldn’t let go of you. Not just yet, no matter how much I had convinced myself to do just that.”

 

Clint felt his face heat up. The first explanation made sense, Phil was a SHIELD company man through and through. But coming back for him? He wasn’t worth it. He’d known that for a long time, and the past year had only clarified that.

 

“Clinton Francis Barton,” and whoa, Phil was using what Clint called his “Dad voice,” and it was both terrifying and a turn-on. What? He’d mentioned he had a messed up head, hadn’t he? Phil glared at him sternly. “You are worth it and more. You are a kind, talented, brave and intelligent man who puts everyone before himself and has saved my life more times than I can count, quite literally, and you know how diligent I am of keeping track of things.” It was true. Clint had seen the Excel sheets. They were all color-coded.

 

“Hey, your charts or some shit could be wrong for once!” He insisted, face still burning. “I’m nothing special.”

Phil shook his head.

 

“You are. And...and I admit that I’m not just saying this because I think of you as an excellent asset or even...even a friend, Clint.”

 

Shit, he knew it. He wanted to trust him, but Phil was here to get him back to SHIELD, convince him that all the lying was for a greater good, or something. He wriggled, making another attempt to get away. This is what he got for letting down his guard, trusting someone.

 

“Clint, no! I just…” The archer paused at the odd, strained note in Phil’s voice. He looked up, confused. His former handler took a deep breath.

 

“I love you. Or rather, the more accurate assessment would be, I’m in love with you.”

 

Clint licked his lips and took a moment to let that sink in. So, not just here for SHIELD, then.

 

They’d had the “oops” moments when they went off to work for the day, leaning in and saying, “Love you,” after a peck on the lips. Or during sex. But they’d never said it and meant it, exactly. Clint had been terrified that if he said it, Phil would leave him, and vice versa. And then Phil did leave, supposedly confirming his worst fears in more ways than one.

 

It was clear that Phil could see his internal struggle, and while he didn’t pull down his Agent mask again, some of the light dimmed in his eyes, and he gave him a reassuring, if not bland, smile.

 

“I didn’t expect you to say it back,” his former handler said quietly. “But I wasted so much time in not telling you how I’ve felt for over a year now, and you deserve to know that, that you’re loved. That you deserve to be loved.” Clint’s chest ached, and he hurried to clarify. It wasn’t the most romantic way to go about it, but Phil deserved to know, too.

 

“I love you, too. Never thought you’d--well, it doesn’t matter,” Clint said hastily when Phil frowned and looked like he was going to protest. “Heh. We both love each other. How the hell did that happen?”

 

“Does it matter?” Phil kissed his forehead, and Clint decided that that wasn’t gonna stand. Not when they were finally here. He tugged him down further and met his lips with his, smiling into his mouth when he returned the kiss more than enthusiastically. It wasn’t a filthy kiss, but he did swipe at his lower lip with his tongue before he pulled away. They both sat there, panting, for a moment. Clint tucked himself back into his arms and sighed, “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

 

“Yeah…” And that was another way he knew that Phil was dazed, he always slipped into more casual vernacular when he was unguarded. Clint yawned.

 

“Nat is gonna kill you all over again, you know,” he murmured, snuffling into the crook of Phil’s neck. Phil-smell was the best smell. And this one wouldn’t fade. He inhaled happily.

 

He felt him shrug. He made a noise of surprise when Phil hooked his arms under his knees and lifted him up again, heading towards his tiny bedroom. He decided not to ask how he knew where it was.

 

“I figured as much. But it’s worth it since I got to see you.”

 

Clint whined and shook his head when Phil stiffened in alarm.

 

“Gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that, Phil. Not used to it, it’s weird.”

 

The chuckle vibrated against his chest, and he hummed pleasantly.

 

“The more I say it, the more it’ll sink into that handsome skull of yours. Now come on. Let’s get you to bed, I’m sure it’s been a while since you had a good night’s sleep.”

 

“Or day’s,” Clint agreed, finally letting himself yawn. He blinked up with sleep-fuzzy, hopeful eyes. “You’re going to stay with me?”

 

“For as long as I can,” Phil agreed, turning the last corner to the rickety bed and lowering Clint down into it. As the archer got comfortable, he shucked off his shoes and socks and climbed in after him. He’d missed this so much, and never thought he’d be able to have it again, not like this when before it had only been sleeping in one bed on missions. Clint was having similar thoughts as he was tugged back into Phil’s arms, tucking his head under his chin.

 

“You’re really going to stay?” He had been so alone for so long, and if Phil wasn’t there when he woke up he was going to think this was all a dream and feel even worse. His former handler seemed to sense this and nodded, sliding back under the covers with him and tucking him close.

 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

 

**TBC**


End file.
